


Touch

by EmpressLedge



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressLedge/pseuds/EmpressLedge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot</p>
<p>Falling in love with Zevran, from the Warden's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I first wrote this piece in a flurry, in bed, when I was supposed to be sleeping. I thought the phrase, 'The first time you touch...', and my muse grabbed me and wouldn't let go until I was finished.
> 
> First posted on Tumblr, this is a slightly edited (read: improved, hopefully) version of that original post.

The first time you make contact, it is the steel of blade against blade. The force, you discover later, leaves lasting bruises on the joints of your main arm, and his. It is not the touch that you count, but one you remember.

 

The first time you touch, you have pulled him to a stand. He swears an oath of loyalty to you, to you personally, and for some reason against all instinct, you believe it. He is heavier than he seems, and not just in body.

The second time, your elbow brushes his arm as you pass, carrying a tent pole. He does not flinch as you expect him to. 

The third time, he approaches on your side silently and nudges you, shoulder to shoulder. Your suspicion flares too late - unneeded, as he has found your prey and is alerting you to it. You are unsure if you should trust your instincts or the warning of your companions. He slips back into place behind you and the hunt fills your mind. 

The fourth time, you are settled in camp and you hand him a bowl of stew. His fingers are ice, but his smile is warm. You ask him a question, turn towards the fire and wait for him to follow. He would have seen through the ploy, but you cannot bring yourself to ask him to sit with you.

 

 

By the fifth touch, you have stopped counting. You stopped counting, and you wonder why you counted in the first place. He places your dagger in your hands, freshly cleaned, but not polished to a shine in the fashion of a warrior. This gesture feels like understanding. 

He presses his weight against you, back to back, and with no signal you step into place and together you are a fortress. As if it were a dance, your bodies meet and separate, once and again. Blood coats your blades, corpses surround you, your companions call to one another but all you can see is his mischievous grin. 

When you talk you do not touch, but the conversations you have are as intimate as any embrace. His jokes are plentiful, he flatters and spouts innuendo like a fountain, and he is unerringly honest and accepting. 

When he invites you to his bed, your excuses are excuses. The smallest part of you doesn’t want to sully him with your touch. That part of you cringes when you think of how he would laugh if you said as much. You know that he notices when you slip into the darkness to bathe in the cold, cold lake. 

 

 

You notice his callouses in the firelight, and feel their roughness as you give him gloves. When you remind him of the reason for the gift, you see the surprise in his eyes at the fact you remembered. They slip over his hands as if made only for him, and you wonder if his hands would fit as well twined with your fingers.

When the firelight in his hair is too much to bear, you ask him to your tent. He refuses. 

 

 

You do not touch again but in battle, and despite yourself, you insist he stays by your side for that purpose. Nobody argues, as everyone agrees you are both better fighters together than apart. You hope fervently that he thinks no more of it than that, too. 

 

When the stars in his eyes are too much to bear, you ask him why. His confusion, worry and sincerity touch you without contact. 

The first time you _touch_ _,_ it is callouses and heat and warmth. His skin is equal parts silk and leather. His muscles are stone and butter. He is confidence and hesitance, questioning and demanding, contradictions in a glorious whole. 

He is lighter than he seems, and not just in body. 

This is the touch you count, and remember.


End file.
